Free Wanderlost by Jen Malone Page B

palace, the Anne Frank House . . .”
    â€œI want to see the tulips,” Emma chimes in.
    â€œUnfortunately, you’ve chosen the wrong season for that. The tulip fields close to visitors in May. They won’t be blooming now,” Mr. Fenton answers.
    Emma looks disappointed. “What about windmills?”
    â€œI suspect we’ll see plenty of those tomorrow on our drive through the countryside,” Mary says.
    We’re going to the countryside tomorrow? Good to know. I have got to get my hands on that printout Mary has.
    â€œThis place has a sex museum, ya know. That’s my vote.” Who else but Hank?
    Surprisingly, Emma raises her head and says, “Well, now, that sounds fun.”
    Wait, what? There is no way in Helsinki I am accompanying six senior citizens to a museum about S-E-X as their guide . I would rather drown in one of the canals before having to discuss positions and various aides with Grandma. Well, not my grandma, but I’ll bet they’re all someone’s grandma or grandpa.
    â€œOr we could go to the Anne Frank House? Lots of history there.” I smile to make my suggestion sound sweeter. I’m trying. Under the table, Bento slips a piece of paper into my hand. I glance at it, but it’s just a name and a long string of numbers. I must have a confused expression on my face because hemimes a telephone. Oh. It’s a European phone number. Okay, I have no idea who I’m calling, but excusing myself to make a call to a mystery person is way preferable to staying here and getting roped into a sex museum tour.
    â€œI need to run to my room for just a moment. Here, I’ll pass around the brochures and we can talk more when I get back.”
    I race to my room and dial the number.
    â€œMet Corinne.”
    â€œUm, hello?”
    â€œHallo?”
    â€œUh, hi. This is going to sound weird, but . . . do you know a man named Bento?”
    â€œBus driver? From Spain?”
    The voice on the other end of the line sounds not much older than me and not all that surprised to be answering questions about a random Spaniard.
    â€œYes! That’s him! He gave me your number and suggested I call you but, um, I don’t speak Spanish, so I’m not exactly sure why. I know this is strange, but, uh, who are you?”
    A sparkly laugh. “My name is Corinne. I’ve worked with Bento many times. His tour guide companies hire me when they want a local to lead a group around the city for a few hours. You know, get an insider’s take on things.”
    I can do that? I can bring in local experts? This was definitely not in any part of the binder I read. I really should have flipped through more of that thing. I feel a little thrill, like I’mgetting away with something; it’s like a fire drill sounding two seconds after the teacher announces a pop quiz.
    â€œYes! Yes! I’d like to do that, please. Would you be available this morning? Oh, please say yes!”
    Corinne laughs again. “I’m at my girlfriend’s place now. Give me a bit to run home and shower and I can meet you in Dam Square in an hour and a half. Do you know where Dam Square is?”
    I stifle a smile. “Pretty sure I can find it.”
    â€œTell me about your group. How many people, what are their interests, any physical considerations I should know about?”
    I fill her in on the details and she gives me some suggestions. They all sound perfect.
    â€œOh, and Corinne? Is there any chance you speak Spanish?” I ask.
    â€œFluently.”
    I just might do a happy dance in my hotel room.
    Corinne was heaven-sent. She totally and completely saved the day today and I am not ashamed to say I needed major rescuing. Within two seconds she had everyone wrapped around her finger, and I’m fairly sure they would have followed her to the depths of hell (although some might term the Red Light District just that, and we certainly trotted after her